


yours is the darkness of my soul's return

by blackkat



Series: Crossover and Fusion Drabbles [16]
Category: Bleach, Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Crossover, Gen, Ulquiorra is Obito
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 01:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16629995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Kurosaki reminds him of someone.





	yours is the darkness of my soul's return

Kurosaki reminds him of someone.

It’s an unfamiliar feeling, really. Ulquiorra isn't about to falter, isn't about to stop, but the feeling is there, curled around the base of his skull, and he can't ignore it. There is nothing in his chest that isn't muscle and blood and bone, no trace of _heart_ the way the woman means it, but—

Kurosaki gasps out a mouthful of blood, pained, _dying_ , and for the barest, briefest moment all Ulquiorra can see is a red moon and twisted branches.

He was born in darkness, made of white when the rest of the world was black. He carved himself a place there. Nothing exists unless his own eyes have seen it, illusions are nothing at all, and there is no such thing as a heart. _And yet_ —

There's blood around Kurosaki's mouth, and Ulquiorra _knows him_. Knows the shadow of someone else that’s reflected in his eyes, and the half-memory burns beneath his skin. He stares at the blood, at the ragged, bubbling gasp Kurosaki gives, meets those brown eyes—

“Rin,” he says, and the name fits in his mouth even though he’s never said it before, falls from his lips like a familiar thing. _Rin_ , and he pulls his hand back, drenched in Kurosaki's blood, only to find the world is falling away beneath his feet. A red moon stains the sand, except it doesn’t, except Ulquiorra is standing in sunlight even as the sand bleeds red.

Those brown eyes fix on him, even as Kurosaki struggles to breathe. Not accusing, and Ulquiorra takes a step back, suddenly uncertain, off balance. _Rin_ echoes in his head like a vast heartbeat, something too large to contain, and he puts a hand up to his head with a grimace, smears blood across the remnants of his Hollow mask. The moon is red, the sand is red, but the sand is white, and for a moment his vision swims between the two, a dizzying, nauseating twist that leaves him feeling like he’s falling from a height.

“Kurosaki-kun!” the woman cries, loud, and she darts across the open ground, power already blooming around her hands. Green, it should be, Ulquiorra thinks, except this rejection of reality is orange-gold and always has been. He’s thinking of something else, something that he shouldn’t know. Something he _doesn’t_ know, because he was ash and there was only darkness and then—

And then he was a white form rising from a black world, rejecting everything but the reality he could touch with his own hands. Too many illusions, too many lies, and Ulquiorra has seen the twisted into a weapon but he won't fall for them again.

Breathing hard, Ulquiorra pulls his hand from his face, stares down at it. Black fingernails, when something tells him they should be dark blue; unmarked skin, when something tells him it should be scarred. A body, whole, when he knows beyond a doubt that he should be dead.

“You stopped,” a ragged voice says, and slowly, slowly Ulquiorra raises his head. Kurosaki is sitting up, one of the woman’s arms around his shoulders, a hand pressed to his whole chest. He’s staring at Ulquiorra, eyes narrowed, mouth set in a frown, and when he sees Ulquiorra looking back he pushes to his feet. “Are you all right?”

The empty place in Ulquiorra’s chest aches, except it doesn’t. he stopped believing in hearts long ago. Except he never believed in them at all.

(One of the statements is true, except Ulquiorra has a strange, almost sinking feeling that both of them are true.)

The woman is staring at him, and her eyes are wide and soft and full of something Ulquiorra doesn’t want to have a name for. “Who is Rin?” she asks softly.

 _No one_ , Ulquiorra opens his mouth to say. “I can't remember,” he says instead, and it feels like truth instead of a lie.

Kurosaki's eyes widen, and he takes a step forward. “From your human life?” he asks. “You remember?”

“I just said I didn’t,” Ulquiorra tells him flatly, but he curls a hand around the horn on his mask fragment, breathes, closes his eyes. _Rin_ , and it echoes in his head again—bloody hand, red moon, dark world. Everything is white and black and red inside Ulquiorra’s head, and he doesn’t know what to do.

“I'm taking Inoue home,” Kurosaki says, and the woman draws in a short, sharp breath. She doesn’t argue, though, and when Ulquiorra raises his head to look at her she’s standing by Kurosaki's side.

If Ulquiorra fights Kurosaki, if he even tries to stop him, he doesn’t know what will happen. Something, he’s sure. The red moon burns above them, even though Las Noches is always in the daylight, and Ulquiorra’s hand is covered in blood from where he stabbed Kurosaki through the chest.

 _Rin_ , he thinks, closing his eyes again, and the name echoes in his head like a bell.

“Go,” he says quietly, flatly. Means it, even; there's something vast and aching in his head, and he isn't going to fight Kurosaki, not when he’s like this.

There's a long moment of silence, and then Kurosaki says, “Come with us.”

When he looks up, Kurosaki has a hand outstretched, his mouth set in a determined line. He looks set, steady, and Ulquiorra feels anything but.

There's another hand in front of him, somewhere far away and long ago, before a world fell to ruin and he fell to ash. A smaller hand, but just as firm. Just as readily offered, and a sound cracks through Ulquiorra’s throat. It might be a laugh; he honestly can't remember.

“I'm your enemy,” he says dully. “Are you really so—”

“Get up,” Kurosaki tells him, fierce. _So_ fierce, and Ulquiorra’s not-heart aches once more, sharp and gutting. “Stop moping. Come with us. Don’t let Aizen get you.”

So easy for him to say, Ulquiorra thinks. So easy, and yet—

It’s just as easy for him to reach out, take the hand. The red moon looms overhead, but like the heat of Kurosaki's hand is burning away the mirage of it, the image is already starting to fade.

Ulquiorra lets Kurosaki pull him to his feet, and in between their clasped hands, like heat and steadiness and callused fingers, he thinks he may feel something that could be a heart, finally rebuilt from ashes.


End file.
